


Truth in Lies

by nchardak



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nchardak/pseuds/nchardak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some minor Locke/Jean smut with a shred of plot. You like the fake relationship trope? We got your fake relationship trope right here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth in Lies

Locke couldn't quite say it started innocently enough. They were attempting to grift the noble House of Silbernacht, after all, disguised as Camorri tobacco merchants. The end result, he could say, as diplomatically as possible, was something he and Jean had not expected in the least. 

First, Locke had tried flirting with the young Vadran heiress at one of her intimate parties, but had been informed by a close friend of hers, after a slap to his face, that Lady Miria had recently been the victim of a scurrilous suitor who'd put her rather violently in a position to distrust young men, particularly those who gave the barest suggestion of courting her. 

"My lady!" he begged, feeling the seams of this fragile venture slipping away, "you misunderstand! I would never presume; I have no interest in your hand or your name, lovely as you are!"

"Do you not?" she'd said, icily, dismissing her friend who'd come to support her when she'd seen Miria's outburst against Locke

"No! I am...I am spoken for..." he hesitated, dropped his voice low, flicked his eyes to Jean, standing uncomfortably in Vadran wools, speaking to another of Miria's friends. They'd planned for Jean to gently probe Miria's romantic interests as well, if Locke failed, but he knew now they'd need to try another tack entirely. Their research indicated Miria had a reputation as a flirt, but things had apparently changed.

Miria followed Locke's swift glance and placed a hand on her heart, her face moving rapidly from anger to understanding and sympathy. 

"Oh, Master Lucazo, please, I beg you to forgive me. I had no idea! I should have guessed, you and he are so close!"

"I...well...um..." Locke had intended to describe a beautiful and imaginary girl for his character to be betrothed to, waiting back in Camorr. A lovely story of first loves was blooming in his mind, only to be cut short by Miria's assumption. 

"Please, Lucazo, you don't need to hide your love from me and my fellows," she gestured with her glass of brandy around her lavish apartments, where a dozen or so young men and women lounged and conversed casually, "My brother, Gods rest his soul, shared your tastes, and he took his own life for it," her eyes blinked rapidly, and she recovered, "none here would consider spilling your secret to the streets, I swear it. "

"I...that is most comforting to hear, Lady," Locke gave a carefully hesitant smile, "though I am truly sorry for your brother." 

"Please, call me Miria," she said conspiratorially, all traces of her former anger at Lucazo gone, "come, introduce me to your love. It was Callas, wasn't it?"

Luckily, through a few discreet hand signals, Locke managed to communicate the new development to Jean, who recovered quickly enough to make his initial surprise appear to be consternation at their "secret" becoming known. 

Locke looped his arm around Jean, his smile broadening, reminded privately again how large his friend was, "well, we met as colleagues, of course, and we worked together for years before we realized we couldn't be without each other."

"I couldn't get rid of him if I tried," Jean gave Locke a wry grin. Miria beamed. 

The two had, of course, been pretending to be various other people since childhood, but Locke was still mildly surprised at how easily they fell into the roles of lovers; albeit lovers who needed to retain the pretext of a friendly business relationship. By the time several of Miria's friends had made their farewells, they'd earned an invitation to Miria's private birthday dinner the next week. 

"My father," she said with another hint of ice, "wants me to return to the manor for a few days, to 'celebrate' with him, though I can't imagine anything less celebratory than listening to him drawl on and on about politics he's not involved in and territory disputes that were solved in his grandfather's time. I shall want a lively group to return home to, after such a dreary week. Do say you'll come!"

"We wouldn't miss it," Locke hoped his smile didn't look as shark-like as he imagined. 

"And you'll bring some of your famous Camorri weeds for us all to try?" she raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"And I miss out on a chance to convert your vices from liquor to tobacco? Wouldn't dream of it!" Locke laughed. 

And so, the mostly triumphant Bastards returned to their rented apartment to plan their next course of action. 

"I don't see how it's going to be an issue," Locke said, energetically pacing around the small sitting room while Jean worked at removing his own slightly too-small boots, "Lucazo and Giancarlo won't have been used to displaying their affection publicly, so Miria can hardly expect us to be wildly intimate even at a supposedly friendly dinner party. And it's not like we don't know enough about each other to answer any personal questions."

"I suppose. But I still don't like going into a situation without knowing every detail of our supposed behavior," Jean stood, stretched, removed his Wicked Sisters from their home behind his coat, and laid them on the sofa. 

Locke considered something for a split second, then crossed the room and kissed Jean. He had to stand up on his toes to do it, and Jean's beard was unexpectedly rough against his chin. It was perfunctory and bloodless, but when they broke apart something had changed. 

"There," Locke said, swallowing heavily, "don't ever say I don't like to be prepared."

Jean was slowly reddening from the neck up, and he wasn't meeting Locke's eyes, but staring down at a place near Locke's lapel. There was a long silence. Jean unconsciously drew his lower lip into his mouth and the thought that wafted through Locke's mind that Jean was _tasting him_ made his heart begin to stutter. 

Hesitantly, the moment feeling so fragile that the most brief misstep might shatter it, Lock leaned up again. It was the barest hint of a kiss; just a brush of soft, full lips against his thin ones. Locke pulled back, cast his eyes to Jean's, which had half-closed. 

Jean breathed in deeply, placed his hand at the nape of Locke's neck, and pulled him back. 

This kiss started similarly, Lock relishing the feel of Jean's lips on his, the simple, intimate action. Then, he pushed forward, ever so slightly, slipping Jean's lower lip between his, scraping a hint of teeth. 

Jean moaned low, just a minute vibration in his throat. The hand on the back of Locke's neck tightened, then receded, his large thumb rubbing circles just behind Locke's ear. 

Their kiss deepened. Tongues were introduced. Lips were bitten in earnest. Locke's hands were suddenly awkward, one tugging Jean's collar, the other resting in his hair. He drew away, gasping as though he'd been underwater, "Jean," he breathed. He meant to say more, to ask if this is what his friend really wanted, if they should move to the bed, if he was a miserable kisser, but he couldn't, not with Jean looking at him, dazed, hair and clothes and optics in a disarray. 

It was Jean who spoke, voice gruff, "I've never done this with a man before," the apology written in every word. 

Locke had to laugh at that, "When do you think I would've had the opportunity to do this either?" He wished his voice wasn't so ragged. 

They drew back into each other, as though drawn by tides, mouths breaking apart so Jean might kiss down Locke's neck, nip at his collarbone, while Locke gasped and moaned and tried to pull through the haze of lust long enough to undo the buttons on Jean's jacket, his fingers, that had lifted a thousand purses and palmed countless coins suddenly clumsy, foreign. Jean had no such compunction for subtlety, and ripped Locke's jacket open, the sudden violence a heady counterpoint to the soft mood in the apartment. 

"Crooked Warden, Jean, I need you," Locke breathed, and it could not have been but two heartbeats before they fell into bed, Locke backing up on his hands to the head, Jean following him, shedding his shirt and undoing his breeches. A moment later, Locke had pulled his own shirt off and they were kissing again, bare chests burning hot against each other. Locke reached down between them and tugged at Jean's breeches where they hung ready to fall. Clumsily, Jean rolled off of Locke and pulled them away completely, Locke quickly rising off the bed to do the same. 

For a moment, there was peace and quiet within their fog of lust, punctuated by heavy breathing. They looked at each other, two decades of friendship between them, and as one, smiled. 

"You're sure about this?" Jean asked.

"Sure about what?" Locke leaned in for another kiss, drawing Jean on top of him again, Locke spreading his legs to accommodate him, swallowing heavily at the unspoken suggestion. Their cocks brushed against each other; Locke gasped and Jean moaned, grinding against the smaller man, hands feeling each bone in Locke's chest, while Locke slid his hand between them to grip their two cocks together. Jean seemed to be everywhere, towering over him on trembling arms. 

"I have no idea - oh, Gods, Jean, yes - idea...idea how you like it," Locke's eyes were screwed shut, his hand working clumsily.

"Locke, I'm going to come soon," Jean said against Locke's neck in a voice he'd initially imagined to be sarcastic until it came out broken, "it doesn't matter...what you do..."

"This isn't mmmmmgh very...interesting," Jean's hand had joined his, and the feel of the much larger hand wrapping easily over his own and their cocks nearly made him spend himself. 

"It's...plenty interesting. You...oh Gods... seem very... interested."

"We'll just have to...try it again..." 

"Please...Locke...shut up and let me come..."

Jean's free hand gripped Locke's hair, buried his face in Locke's neck, bearing down with his full weight. Far from being uncomfortable, Locke reveled in the closeness even as he felt Jean come, warm liquid spilling between them, giving Locke lubrication to speed up his thrusts to meet his own completion. His body spasmed, frozen for that infinitesimal moment, and then it was gone. Reality ebbed back into their lives as Jean heaved himself off of Locke, stared up at the ceiling for half a minute before rolling upright and finding a dirty shirt to clean himself off with. He threw it to Locke, and climbed back into bed. 

"So," Jean said. 

"So," Locke replied.

"That was not the best sex I've ever had."

Locke threw the sticky shirt at Jean's face.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time writing any kind of smut, ever, and thus, like our boys, I kept it simple. I also made some stuff up about Vadrans and their noble houses because the smut was the point of the story and I was like¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ . I kinda like my OC though. If people enjoy this story I might continue it, see where it goes. It'll probably go right to more smut, tbh.


End file.
